Disclaimer: Everyone knows I'm not J.R.R. Tolkien (I'm still alive), one of his relatives (if I were, I'd have told the whole world by now), or one of the people who currently handle his works (and the people and places therein). So this was the disclaimer. The whole thing's painfully obvious, so I'll dispense with it in later chapters. (You should be thankful. I tend to blather...)

Author's note: Okay. Bear with the prologue... It's the stuff that has to happen to explain what occurs later in chapter 2. So, yeah, it has a slow and quite "un-funny" beginning, but I promise to make up for it! (The pony, Bill, isn't present in this story because I didn't know what to do with him in my scenario. Perhaps I'll do another version sometime including his character, for an interesting idea just popped into my head... but oh well. I don't feel like rearranging the whole story. :P Actually, I might give Bill his very own story - that'll make it up to him, don't you think?) Oh, and this doesn't necessarily follow the book or the movie; You might notice that I tweaked some stuff. Anyway, on with the fic.

***************************

|-=Prologue: Caradhras=-|

The Fellowship plodded eternally onward through the numbing blizzard, all following the crude path that Boromir and Aragorn had painstakingly plowed through the drifts of ice and snow. All save Legolas at least, for he was able to make his way directly on top of the powdery covering; his lithe elven body and quick feet giving each movement the graceful quality of a feather in the wind.

The light on the end of Gandalf's staff glowed a pale white, mirroring the color of the snow. At whiles, when the men's strength gave out, the wizard would take their place at the head of the group, melting the blockade with the warmth of his magical lamp. But Gandalf tired of this vigil after a time also, and the men, having had their rest, reassumed their former position. And so they had gone at turns for some time.

Gandalf, now walking silently a few feet behind Aragorn and Boromir, paused to look back at the rest of their company. After himself stumbled the four hobbits, hunched against each other as they walked (both for balance and warmth): Frodo and Sam to the left of, and a bit behind, Merry and Pippin. Following the halflings was Gimli the dwarf, his axe slung over one shoulder. Sometimes he would look up warily at the jagged icy precipices above. It was natural for those of his kind to be uneasy of open places with hidden dangers, as they were quite accustomed to living in well-protected underground mines.

Legolas continued his scouting, and paced sometimes at his friends' side, but more often than not, walked ahead or behind, peering from beneath the shade of slender elven fingers — alert to any and all things that posed potential threat atop Caradhras.

Razor-edged wind bit through flesh and pierced bone. The gale had become fiercer now, and willpower was waning.

"I don't know how much more I can take of this, Mr. Frodo," Sam wheezed, the wind forcing the remainder of breath from the stout garden-savvy hobbit. Frodo managed a weak smile of encouragement, and Sam doubled over as if he'd taken a blow to the stomach.

Aragorn craned his neck to the rear, and his eyes met with those of the wizard. Whither shall we go, Gandalf, the man's icy-blue gaze inquired, to freeze upon the mountain-pass or brave the depths of a darker road?

Suddenly everyone's thoughts were interrupted and a feeling of foreboding built up more quickly than the most malevolent of winter storms. Legolas, now standing alongside Gandalf, drew his hand up in a gesture that none dared ignore, despite their hard-pressed urge to rid themselves of the mountain.

Wait. Listen.

Crouched low, the elf barely whispered: "There is a fell voice on the air..."

Fear slowly crept into the heart of the company, for the wind seemed to have stopped howling altogether. And indeed, when Frodo, Gimli, and the others strained to hear, they noticed a faint hovering noise — a throaty, pulsing vocalization.

Gandalf didn't need to hear. The speaker was Saruman, master of Isengard, one whom he used to call friend, peer and brother. That "friend" now looked to destroy their lives — their quest.

The mountain began to shake, and boulders tumbled earthward from the apex, barely missing the narrow path the Fellowship tread. Gandalf gathered all the strength he could muster, and tried to counter the other wizard's spell. Saruman was more powerful, surely, but did not know that the grey-robe was rapidly becoming a more formidable opponent.

The hobbits, the men, the elf and the dwarf huddled close to the trembling wall for protection and support while the battle of the wizards raged on. The two spells finally clashed, once again sending the mountain into a fitful tremor. An avalanche of snow rained from above, and all were buried save Gandalf, whose clear voice rent the frigid air with the authority of a chasm-splitting earthquake.

The ground seemed to sink from underneath the feet of the snow-covered company as they tumbled into a gaping abyss.

Whither shall we go, Gandalf?

Let the Ringbearer decide . . .